


Scars, Souvenirs and Stories

by acerbicsarcasm



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Gaslighting, Gen, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Other, Sex with Handcuffs, Trans Nureyev, blatant use of the peter nureyev alias generator, domestic abuse, just a lot of fucking and talking about terrible shit in the past now that things are better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 14:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18075497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbicsarcasm/pseuds/acerbicsarcasm
Summary: During a night in bed together, Juno and Peter tell the stories of where these scars came from





	Scars, Souvenirs and Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Heya, please read the tags for content warnings! References to self-harm scars and depiction of emotional and physical abuse in a committed romantic relationship.

They have scars. They know this, they know the other knows, but they’ve never mentioned it.

Juno rolls over, muscles aching, every nerve beneath his skin throbbing with that post-orgasm relief. Peter is still flat on his back, the same place he collapsed after he came.

Juno sees it as he reaches across for the tissues; a raised knot of scar tissue on Peter’s upper thigh. It’s nasty, thick and twisted, and Juno guesses it took too long to heal. Maybe broken stitches. Maybe no stitches.

With still-shaking fingers, Juno wipes their combined mess from Peter’s crotch and his own, tossing the tissue on top of the pile they already started after round one. Peter grins sleepily, weaving a hand through Juno’s curls and gently rubbing soothing circles into his scalp and Juno bends down to press a kiss directly atop that mess of scar tissue.

“Oh, _Juno_.” Peter’s voice is thick and hoarse, and his hand tightens in Juno’s hair. Juno’s mouth moves upwards, to Peter’s hip, and he sucks another hickey into the pale skin there. Peter’s back arches, and he lets out another soft gasp. Juno loves wringing these small noises from him.

He pulls back long enough to run his fingertips over the scar. “Must have been a hell of a fight.”

Juno isn’t expecting a response, and he’s lowering his mouth to that wet point between Peter’s legs, ready to give round three a go, when Peter huffs out a laugh.

“Not much of a fight,” he says. His hand still runs through Juno’s hair, and it moves to cup the detective’s cheek as Juno raises his head, confusion and curiosity etched between his eyebrows.

“How the hell did you manage it, then?”

“Ah.” There’s the sound of embarrassed hesitance. Juno knows the sound well. It creeps into Peter’s voice whenever Juno inquires about the origin of fancy new earrings that Peter brings home, or an emerald bracelet that Peter claims brings out his eyes. “It was actually my own knife, funnily enough.”

“Peter?”

“It was an accident,” Peter clarifies, quickly, giving Juno’s hand a reassuring squeeze. He sighs and sits up slightly, poking at the scar as if probing it for change. “This is a souvenir from Brahma.”

 

__________

 

_Peter is twelve, and he carries a knife. Mag says it’s always good to be prepared — ‘look like you know how to use it and you’ll never need to’ — but in this case, it’s that very knife that gets Peter into trouble._

_Carrying a satchel over one shoulder, Peter weaves his way through the alleyway streets. He’s been careful, excruciatingly careful. He has three kilograms of stolen fruit in this bag, and he knows he could be stunned or killed by the sky hanging over him at any moment._

_A boy needs to eat._

_Colourful flags flap in the wind. They’re strung between balconies, framing purple clouds high above. Peter watches them drifting, and he doesn’t see —_

_He collides with someone hard, and goes down equally hard. It’s a good thing he’s a waif of a boy; he hasn’t knocked over the person he slammed into. They’re broader then him, though slightly shorter. They turn with a slow anger that makes the hairs on Peter’s neck stand on end._

_“What’cha got?” Beady, piggy eyes zoom in on Peter’s satchel, and Peter’s heart kicks into overdrive when he realises the flap is open. Fingers shaking, he scrambles to close it. A thick paw of a hand snatches the strap._

_“Give it back.”_

_That catches his attention. Those beady eyes rise from their claimed prize, and stares at the tiny boy rising to his feet. Peter’s hand goes to the knife at his belt._

_The thief stealing from the thief lets out a bark of laughter._

_Peter lunges forward, trying to grab the satchel. It’s swung out of his reach. He jumps for it again, and the laughter of the thug holding it just out of the way of Peter’s desperately clutching hands echoes in the tiny alley._

_The knife is out. It’s in Peter’s hand, held in a tight grip out in front of him, like a sword. His voice doesn’t waver. “Give it back.”_

_The thug doesn’t wait. He turns, as if to run, and when Peter shifts his weight to pursue him, he turns, swinging hard. A meaty fist collides with Peter’s jaw and he drops to the ground with a howl._

_That howl becomes a scream as the knife ends up pinned beneath him, pointy-end first, deep in the meat of his thigh._

_When he finally stops crying enough to see the hilt clearly, he grits his teeth. He feels something in his jaw pop as he tugs that knife out. He uses the bloody edge to cut the leg of his pants, tying a makeshift bandage._

_He’s muttering when he finally stumbles down the many, many flights of stairs to the one last safe place on this planet; deep underground, he collapses in the safehouse he and Mag have called home for years._

 

_When he wakes, Mag has bandaged the deep wound, cleaned it out, sponged the blood and the dirt from Peter’s face. He’ll do it many, many times again, because of course Peter can’t keep himself from tearing stitches and re-opening it, with rivulets of blood tracing their way down his leg, until when it finally does heal, it’s a mess of old and new wounds. A testament to the hours Peter pours into learning how to use that knife he carries at his hip, and a testament to his hatred of staying still. A testament to that fear that he never wants to feel again._

_Every time Peter strains himself too much, Mag shakes his head in exasperation, but never berates him, merely fishing out another roll of bandages from their precious medical supplies, and fishing out another story to keep Peter occupied while he works to fix him back up._

 

__________

 

Juno traces idle circles on Peter’s stomach, his head nestled in the perfect dip between shoulder and chest, while he listens. He presses kisses along Peter’s jaw after his lover falls silent.

“I always did wonder why you preferred a knife,” Juno says, the words whispered against the curve of Peter’s ear. “Blasters are so much easier.”

The laugh that Peter lets rumble from his ribcage thrums through Juno’s bones. “Knives are cheaper. And easier to find, in a place like Brahma.”

Peter suddenly rolls over, flipping Juno over onto his back. Juno lets out a yelp of surprise that Peter smothers with a kiss, letting his fingers twine through Juno’s, pinning them to either side of his head.

Through the kiss, Juno lets out a groan. His hips buck and Peter smiles against the detective’s skin. He releases Juno’s wrists but Juno is content to leave them where they are.

Peter’s hands, spidery and elegant, trace down Juno’s chest. Fingertips tweak his nipples and Juno bows off the bed with a gasp. Peter’s touch slows, and reaches a nasty gash of a scar, wrapping around Juno’s lower ribs. He runs his hands over it.

“That one looks very much like a blaster scar, love,” Peter says, and imitates Juno, leaning down to kiss it. He licks the sensitive skin on Juno’s side, just beneath the scar tissue, and Juno shivers.

“Funny,” Juno gasps. “It — _fuck_ — is. _Oh, Peter!”_

 

__________

 

_Officer Juno Steel has been on the force for three years, and he’s made very, very few friends. So when he calls for backup, and Falco is off-planet, there’s a delay in getting to him the support he’s requested. He knows it isn’t an accident._

_There’s been a mugging. It could be like every other minor crime, unreported and lost in the unceasing movement of the city, but this time someone got away. One civilian slipped through the gang’s fingers, and alerted the police._

_He admires their optimism._

_Juno picks the call up on his scanner, and he’s there in a few moments. There are five of them, one of him, and one dead end. And two civilians, passed out on the ground. Juno feels his blood boil._

_He calls for backup. It doesn’t come._

_He hits three of them quickly, stun blasts to the chest, but only two fall. The third must be wearing a stun-proof vest, because he barrels towards Juno with a furious rage that reminds Juno of a raging bull. He dodges the first two wild swings, but when another one joins in, Juno takes more hits than he wants to._

_Fists slam into his ribs, his blaster ripped from his hands. He slams one of their heads into the hood of his patrol car, kicks another one between the legs until they whimper, but the third gets him in the kidney with a well-aimed elbow, and Juno keels over in pain. The butt of his own blaster is slammed into his face, and they aim it down at him._

_Juno can’t see what the setting is. His head is swimming. He waits until the last second, watching the finger tighten on the trigger, and rolls out of the way at the last second._

_The searing blow of a laser set to ‘kill’ rips its way across his ribs like liquid fire, and a scream tears itself loose from his throat. His nerves liquify and pool deep in him, a mix of flaming pain and icy bolts up his spine._

_He swats loosely at the muzzle of the blaster above him, seeing it draw closer and closer to his temple in slow-motion._

_There’s a scream. A crowd is gathering._

_He refuses to add another innocent body to those on the ground._

_Juno grits his teeth, and launches himself up from the ground, tackling the one holding the gun on him. They go down in a tangle._

_Sirens can be heard in the distance._

_Juno knows he’s fighting dirty, using every trick he ever picked up on Old Town streets, biting and gouging and tearing, hitting with knees and elbows and fists until the sirens are practically on top of them, and blood is mixing on the ground. His and this gangster’s. He’s acutely aware of two civilian bodies, dead or alive he doesn’t know, mere feet from them._

_Someone has to pull them off each other. Juno is tossed bodily away, dragged by his jacket collar while the gangster is restrained. Cuffs are slapped on both of them, but Juno passes out from pain and blood loss before they manage to haul him to the car._

 

__________

 

Peter’s mouth moves to the junction of Juno’s thighs, and his hands reach up again to pin Juno’s down, holding them tight by his sides. Juno gives up on the story and strains to slip deeper between Peter’s lips, but Peter’s grip is inescapably tight.

Juno’s moans at this slow, steady, tantalising fucking fill the small room within seconds. Peter stops when his breathing gets too fast, and Juno whines incoherently as Peter leaves a deep purple bruise with his tongue on Juno’s inner thigh.

When he lets go, Juno is trying to thrash, rock-hard and teased beyond belief, but Peter spreads his body on top, holding him down with his weight and the wetness between his legs rubbing hard on Juno’s hip.

Panting, Juno strains at Peter’s grip, but the thief bites him on the neck and Juno goes limp with a groan. Lapping his tongue gently over the abused skin — there will be marks tomorrow, lots of them, and Peter can’t wait to see each and every one — Peter moves to tug on Juno’s earlobe with his teeth.

“Peter,” Juno gasps out. “There are — _uh_ — handcuffs in the — _oh shit_ —”

Peter bites down hard on Juno’s shoulder and it sends a shock rippling through his body. Peter holds him in place, letting that desperation grow, contained to exploding. “Where was that again, love?”

When Juno opens his mouth to reply, Peter bites his other shoulder. Juno gasps, sucking all of the oxygen out of the room. Peter can feel how hard he is against his hip. “ _Drawer_.”

Peter kisses him on the lips, tugging gently. Then he releases Juno’s hands and grabs the handcuffs from beneath the side table — he knew they were there but he loves to hear Juno try and make sense around his moans and gasps and whatnot — and clips them into place, testing their give and making sure they won’t pinch. He runs his fingers down Juno’s forearms, and the parallel rows of scars there.

Juno doesn’t tell the story of those.

Peter’s hands wrap into Juno’s hair and he kisses the detective with the kind of wild abandon that both of them only achieve in these moments; hidden from the world, hiding from their own fears and thoughts behind each other.

As Peter begins trailing kisses down Juno’s cheek to his neck, where his five o’clock shadow meets his sensitive skin, Juno’s gasps morph into words. “Christ — Nureyev —”

Peter presses a sharp-toothed smile into Juno’s neck and murmurs, “That’s it, Juno, love. Say my name.”

“ _Nureyev_ —”

Peter slides upwards, hand wrapped around Juno, and flicks his thumb over the tip of Juno’s cock.

“ _Peter_ ,” Juno gasps.

He smiles, and lowers himself onto Juno, and round three is well and truly underway.

 

They’re done for the night. They’re sweaty, well-fucked messes. Juno cleans both of them up again, presses kisses into Peter’s shoulders, and lets himself be wrapped up by Peter’s long limbs, lets his back be pressed against the taller man’s chest.

Peter’s fingers still roam over his skin. Juno hasn’t a clue where he finds the energy.

A lazy fingertip slips over his cheek, tracing the scar across his nose. Juno’s breathing becomes shallower.

“So many scars,” Peter murmurs, his lips against Juno’s ear. “I wish …”

He doesn’t finish the thought.

Juno moves his head away from Peter’s fingers. “I know.” Juno’s fingers find the scar on Peter’s left hand, the one at the base of his knuckles. “I know.”

 

__________

 

_Juno was late coming home. He sees the glare of Hyperion’s sunrise sparking on the horizon, slightly blue-tinged, as he staggers his way back to Diamond’s apartment. His legs are shaky. He’s been putting this off for hours, and the way he’s been doing it is with a lot of whiskey. Somehow, no matter how much he drinks, his throat is dry. He should have stopped hours ago, but it was going to be bad anyway, so why not make it worse?_

_He fumbles with the digital door lock. When he was evicted from his apartment, mere weeks after Ben died, he had to move somewhere fast. Diamond’s offer is magnanimous, and it’s more than he deserves, Juno knows that. Juno’s nothing but a drain and a parasite, and Diamond reminds him of that every time he dares step out of the neat little box he’s been prescribed in Diamond’s life._

_He wonders if the drinking started before or after the lines of that box were drawn. Was the box a response to the drinking, or the drinking a response to the box? What about everything else, the pills and the tablets, when did those start?_

_Juno’s throat is dry and he couldn’t remember the order for the life of him._

_He pushes the door open. The room is dark; he tiptoes to the kitchen, stumbling as he goes. He checks the fridge, then closes it. That’s Diamond’s food._

_He opens the pantry. Closes it._

_Pours himself a glass of water. Gulps it down._

_He leaves his coat over the back of a chair, and makes his way to the bedroom. Maybe, if he showers quietly, he’ll be able to slip beneath the sheets without Diamond noticing how late he is. Maybe he’ll be able to wake them up the way he did months ago, before he outstayed his welcome, with a kiss and some coffee._

_He eases the bedroom door open and realises too late that the light is on._

_They’re sitting on the end of the bed, legs crossed primly, wrapped in that robe they always wear to bed, their hair still tied back for the night. They tap an impatient finger on their knee, and Juno can see that shining stone he put there almost a year ago now. A stone to match the wedding dresses they have getting ready in boutiques, a stone that represents Juno’s promise to stop being such a drain on his fiancee._

_“Juno, honey.” Their voice is strained. “Where have you been?”_

_“I — went out for a drink after work.”_

_“A drink?” Diamond uncrosses their legs, standing up quickly. They’re almost Juno’s height, but they seem to loom. “A drink? It’s five in the fucking morning!” Their face is close. Mere inches away now. “Where the fuck have you been? Was it with Falco again? Are you seeing him behind my back?”_

_Later, Juno would realise how ironic that accusation is, but now, his heart simply sinks. He knew, the minute he had one drink, this would be the result. So why not put it off until morning? It couldn’t get any worse._

_“No, Di, I —”_

_“I was worried, Juno!” they snap the words and Juno tastes spittle on his lips. “You’ve been gone who knows where, with who knows who, without a single care for —”_

_“Di, I’m sorry, I —”_

_The crack that the slap makes echoes through the room. Backhanded. Sharp. Juno’s ears ring with the echoes. His face burns. Or maybe that’s the sting of air on freshly-cut skin._

_“Sorry? Juno, how does sorry fix the fact that you’re getting drunk off your fucking ass each night, or fucked — oh. Oh, honey. I’m …”_

_They cup Juno’s face in their hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was just so scared, and worried about you, and I know I overreact.” They kiss him, on the nose, and their lips come away bloody. “It’s only because I worry. I love you. Please, stay safe honey. I don’t know what I would do without you.”_

 

_Juno doesn’t get the cut looked at. He’s fussed over by Di, but they aren’t a doctor. They haven’t got the faintest clue how to apply adhesive sutures, and Juno just knows messing with it will only make it worse. He doesn’t want them to think he doesn’t appreciate everything they do for him._

_It leaves a scar. Not metaphorically, like his abandoned wedding dress, but physically, and it burns long after it’s fully healed._

 

__________

 

_It’s the first time since Peter killed Mag that he’s been caught. He’s sorely underestimated Plutonian border agents. How was he supposed to know they would ask for transfer papers?_

_He’s posing as a university student, because it was the only way he could justify the student visa he’s forged (all the others were too intricate to concoct on short notice) and it didn’t mention anywhere in the application guidelines that he pored over that he needed transfer papers. Assumed knowledge is stupid; Peter despises how much more difficult it makes his impersonations._

_Percival Queen is studying Intergalactic Relations and Security Systems, and his protests as he’s lead away for further questions are verbose and eloquent. Apparently, that’s not enough to convince them that he’s legitimate._

_The customs officers leave him in a room to stew while they search for the transfer papers online. They don’t find any, because Peter hasn’t made any. They keep searching until Peter feels like his stomach is going to crawl up his throat, he’s so hungry._

_When they do return, he wonders if they forgot about him for a period. They haven’t bothered feeding him._

_Percival Queen is always hungry. Peter Nureyev, meanwhile, has bigger things to worry about._

_An officer sets down Peter’s pack, and reveals, slowly and methodically, every piece of contraband it contains. Two passports, one for Percival Queen and other for Alexander Squire, four knives, and three packages of Neptunian sweet-plums (they’re banned on Pluto)._

_And when Peter refuses to talk, things get nasty. Suspicion builds._

_Peter only knows that he needs to trick them into leaving him alone. He sticks with his Percival Queen story, claims Alexander Squire is a fake ID he used to get into clubs, and begs them to believe him._

_He begs them to believe him when they start hitting him._

_It takes a few kicks for them to dislocate three of his fingers. The skin of his knuckles is split open, ripe to bursting, and as bruises bloom across his skin, their shouted questions growing fainter in his ears, he feels the snaking pain jolting up his arm until he passes out._

_No one comes for him._

 

_Peter is able to pick locks one-handed, courtesy of a stunt that broke his arm a couple of years ago and he had to resort to a cast until Mag could get ahold of the proper bone-knitting injections. He uses this skill now to escape holding and leaves without any identity at all. He stows aboard a flight as a crew member and leaves Alexander Squire and Percival Queen behind._

_He sets his own fingers, and it’s hard enough by himself that he doesn’t have the energy to bandage his knuckles. He’s beyond caring. The bags etched permanently beneath his eyes tell the story of sleepless nights and old mistakes that haunt him, and compared to all that, the evidence of his first off-planet beating doesn’t even scrape the bottom of his to-do list._

_His knuckles scar, and it takes months for him to regain the nimble grace he took for granted._

_It takes even longer for him to realise that the reason this hurts so much isn’t because of nerves or pain receptors; it’s because Mag would have done better, known better, handled it better._

_Peter picks at the scabs and watches the blood drip over his hand as he remembers what Mag’s blood looks like._

_He can’t sleep that night, and tells himself that it’s because he needs to keep watch. Nothing more._

 

__________

 

Juno raises the thief’s hand to his lips and traces the raised ridges across his knuckles, brushing a kiss across them. Peter holds his detective tighter, and lets his breathing set the pace that he matches. They settle into a rhythm, and, curled tightly around each other, they slip into a sleep borne only of the certainty that tomorrow, those scars will fade even more.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, this was a random idea that I just wrote without really drafting (oops)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @mistah-aluminium.
> 
> As always, kudos, feedback, questions, comments, always welcome!


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